


Just Had to Die, is All

by pogch4mp



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Bodysharing, Dream Smp, Gen, Ghosts, Glattbur, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-serious Angst, Suicide, but its not played serious, but thats all, ghostbur isnt here much, i know it sounds like a downer but it's mostly comical i promise, kind of, rated for language, until uh. the end bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29944629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pogch4mp/pseuds/pogch4mp
Summary: Schlatt's tired of being stuck in the SMP again. He had his fun, and he got out, that was that. But apparently not- apparently that didn't align with other people's plans.Well to hell with them. He had his own plan.ORGhost! Schlatt is stuck sharing a body with Ghostbur and wants to go back to the afterlife via any means necessary.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 9





	Just Had to Die, is All

**Author's Note:**

> i finally indulged in my glattbur obsession

Schlatt didn’t want to be here.

That much was clear to anyone he talked to. The afterlife was _nice,_ alright? He was living the damn dream there. Was it because he was practically the undead equivalent of comatose ninety percent of the time? Maybe. That wasn’t anyone’s business but his own. Either way, it was a great deal better than this shithole.

And being back in this godforsaken SMP wasn’t the only part of the karmic hellscape that was his current life- no, god forbid he get off that easily. He was also forced to share a _body_ with fuckin’- what’s-his-face, Wilbur but weird.

Schlatt’d seen Wilbur a few times in the afterlife, whenever he decided to take a little break from the fantastic numbness of the empty void. He seemed fine enough- Schlatt liked pestering him, sometimes he’d get pestered back- but it was almost an unspoken agreement to leave each other alone for the most part. Wilbur had mentioned his ghost counterpart once or twice, but he honestly didn’t seem to care for it.

And Schlatt understood why- oh, trust him, he did. Ghostbur was nice enough but _fuck’s sake_ was he annoying. And whenever Ghostbur was in control- which was most of the time, if Schlatt could help it- Schlatt’s incorporeal spirit couldn’t even float more than a few dozen feet away before being yanked back, like a dog on an irritatingly short leash.

Ghostbur didn’t seem to mind Schlatt’s company. God, of course he didn’t. Even when the dipshit ray of sunshine was getting ridiculed by the ghost at his shoulder, he seemed to be nothing but positive towards him. And hell, maybe that had something to do with the memory problems. The ghost had a repression issue- prick was basically invulnerable to getting sad, from what Schlatt’d seen. When Schlatt mentioned this, Ghostbur assured him that wasn’t true (bullshit) and teasingly asked if Schlatt was jealous. Schlatt wanted to punch him.

Schlatt never asked what had happened in the SMP since he left- he didn’t care, to be totally honest. What he’d seen gave him enough context. Wilbur’d told him he succeeded in blowing up Manberg at some point just after Schlatt had kicked the bucket- and shit, he sure had. Past that, the SMP seemed basically the same- few more builds, a lot more red shit than he remembered, maybe, but fundamentally unchanged.

If there was one thing he thought about in the afterlife- and he didn’t do that often- he’d occasionally wonder what came of… well, everyone, really. It just seemed that so many people on this server cared about that dumb country- what were they doing now that it was destroyed?

Ghostbur wasn’t much help with this, as he didn’t tend to hang around too many people, and Schlatt didn’t really care to ask about them. He never saw Quackity or Fundy, only really vaguely wondering what came of them, why they were never around. Tubbo’d started a new community, apparently- Snowchester. Good on him- that’s all Schlatt really saw, and even then he wasn’t exactly paying attention.

Why wasn’t he paying attention? Because he didn’t _care._ He didn’t want to _be_ here. He really just wanted to leave. He’d told this to Ghostbur- multiple times, in fact- to which he always responded saying that Phil would be reviving him soon and he’d be out of Schlatt’s hair. Well fuck, it’d been “soon” for about two months now, and Schlatt was getting real sick of it.

That’s where this plan was coming from.

The plan was simple enough. Die. Okay, it was a bit more complicated than that- and required using Ghostbur’s body while the other ghost slept, as well as a minor scam- but once that was all said and done, the basic idea was just… death.

He’d tried to recall what exactly happened at Ghostbur’s failed resurrection- far easier said than done because, in Schlatt’s defense, it was a _lot._ But he remembered a lot of talk of totems. Something or other about how they needed one- he pieced together that lack of totem was probably the reason he got dragged down (up?) here in the first place. So totems were a necessity. After enough nights of trying to steal them from houses and inevitably coming up with nothing (because he wasn’t too interested in any other material goods), he turned to alternative methods.

This involved going up to a new server member (didn’t know his name, didn’t care) and, through a long, complicated exchange which involved a lot of fancy business speak that was at most barely applicable, Schlatt got the totem in exchange for nothing but ten minutes of his time.

So totem- check.

Ghostbur’s not-resurrection also had some stupid shrine- Schlatt really only remembered it because Ghostbur had visited it a few times afterwards. The night in which he was planning on re-kicking the bucket, he was wandering about the server, trying to find _something_ he could put on a shrine of his own. Ghostbur’s seemed personalized- L’Manberg flags, his dumb sheep, a fish (for some reason?). Schlatt had no idea what his could have- even if most of it wasn’t probably burned immediately following his death.

_His death._

He got an idea, starting towards where L’manberg used to stand.

So, there he was, standing just under the overhang of his tomb. What better place was there? It had _paintings_ of him, for fuck’s sake (even if most of their surfaces were punctured with arrows). Alright, so shrine- check.

And then the last step. This is where the death part comes in. 

He’d managed to gather that he was meant to re-enact his own death. He furrowed his brows. Well, how the fuck was he supposed to do that, he thought, slumping into one of the pews. He couldn’t exactly go into cardiac arrest on command- he didn’t even think his heart was beating. 

He clearly hadn’t thought this through. He drummed his fingers on the stiff seat under him. 

The plan originally had been he’d revive himself- but it wouldn’t be him. Assuming Wilbur wasn’t just a really weird case, Schlatt would hopefully revive a… well, not a _living_ version of himself, but another version of him that wasn’t him. If that made sense. Was he throwing some other version of himself under the bus? Yeah. Tough shit for that guy.

But he couldn’t quite do that, could he? How had it escaped his notice that, oh yeah, heart attacks aren’t exactly voluntary? How did he fuck up _this bad?_

Whatever. Whatever! What now?

He stared up at the rocky ceiling of the man made cavern around him. He couldn’t believe the, like, handful of hours he’d put into this had been useless. He couldn’t believe that in those hours he’d somehow managed to miss this one fatal flaw. _Non-_ fatal flaw, actually. God, so he was fuckin’ stuck here. He toyed around with a few other ideas for re-death, most notably wondering if it had to be specifically his _last_ death. He dismissed that thought pretty quickly, though. Seeing as both of his other deaths had been at the hands of people he'd imagine weren't very fond of him at the moment. He’d really take anything at this point- he just wanted to _go,_ it didn’t matter how.

Sitting up, he had an idea.

 _Did_ it matter how?

He couldn’t imagine it did. Re-enacting his death and all that- that was probably all just revival shit. He didn’t care about being revived.

Could he just… die?

He didn’t see why not.

He climbed out of the pews and looked around the dark cavern, eventually finding a bow laying discarded by the pedestal. _Perfect_. Going to pick it up, he noticed the totem he was still holding in his hand and tossed it aside. He wouldn’t be needing that anymore. And there was no shortage of arrows piercing the various images of himself, so everything was going swimmingly, especially now that Schlatt was hyping himself up for having problem-solving skills.

He only managed to get five arrows- the rest were either too high to reach or fire aspect, meaning they were now burnt past the point of use. He could kill himself with five arrows- he wasn’t incompotent. 

Schlatt, now armed, walked out of his tomb- ironic, considering his plan. He just had to die, is all, so he’d shoot the arrows up and then catch them on their way down. He was dead, so it wasn’t like it’d hurt.

As he drew back the first arrow, something caught his eye, causing him to hesitate for just a second. He looked down at the bright yellow sweater he’d rolled up to his elbows. _His_ elbows- they barely even counted as his, didn’t they? He was still in Ghostbur’s body, even with the addition of a horn or two. Schlatt’s spirit was in the driver’s seat, but death had a tendency to affect the body as well. So what would happen to..?

But he didn’t give it much more thought. If it worked, it worked- if it didn’t, it didn’t. Even if he did somehow fuck things up for Ghostbur, what repercussions would he face? A stern talking-to? He could live with that- or die with it, preferably. So he drew the arrow again, and took the shot.

Schlatt wasn’t spectacular with the bow- he never used them often- and his first shot went up and landed squarely in the river with a quiet splash. He tried again, watching the arrow go straight up in the air, and then stumbling to the side to catch it.

Schlatt remembered thinking that it wouldn’t hurt. He was wrong. As the arrow embedded itself solidly in his left shoulder, he realized he was _so_ wrong. It felt, as a matter of fact, like an arrow to the shoulder. 

Schlatt gritted his teeth. Alright, alright, he wasn’t a pussy. He could power through this. He drew back the arrow again, the shot going far more forward than up and impaling some of the red shit covering Party Island. He swore, pointing the bow straight up. He’d yet to pull out the arrow in his shoulder, the back of which was jabbing him in the neck as he aimed. He tried again, but watched as the arrow landed somewhere behind him, on top of the tomb.

He swore again, louder. Fuck’s sake! Between the arrow in his shoulder, the one arrow he had left, and the possibility that this plan might not work at all, Schlatt wasn’t having a good time. He took his final arrow and pointed at the sky, trying his best to go for _straight up._ This was difficult, as he was having trouble focusing- be that from anger or impalement. He released the arrow and as it came down, stumbled backwards slightly to catch it.

He caught it. 

Right in the chest.

He staggered back and dropped the bow, partly from shock, mostly from impact. His hand fumbled to his chest as his back hit the stage and pedestal. He slid down it, pulling his hand away to see it coated in a dull black liquid, the very same that forced its way up his throat in a violent coughing fit seconds later. It was blood. It was cold and black but from the metallic taste Schlatt knew it was blood.

His chest felt like it was clenching, closing in around the wound, but a glance down told him it wasn’t. The cold night air brushed his face and he’d been here before, on the ground clutching his chest and wiping dribble from his mouth. Maybe this would be close enough, maybe this would let him leave. The thought was barely coherent though, barely comprehensible over the pain and the tightness and the spinning.

He was about to pass out- in seconds he’d be unconscious and hopefully, he’d die.

His eyes found the discarded gold totem on the ground, not a few inches away, and in the moments just before he lost himself, he watched it explode into yellow and green sparks.

**Author's Note:**

> i have ideas for this to go somewhere so uh,, lemme know if yall are interested :eyes:  
> anyways! hope you all enjoyed.  
> please leave comments! all feedback, positive or constructive, its all very appreciated!  
> have a wonderful day dears <3


End file.
